


Propaganda

by enmayri



Category: Dead by Daylight (Video Game)
Genre: Age Difference, Angst, BDSM, Blood and Violence, Emotional Trauma, Explicit Sexual Content, Featuring: Classic Existential Horror, Frank "Fuck The Government" Morrison is a Little Shit, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Masochism, Sadism, Sexual Content, Size Difference
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-27
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:07:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21588853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enmayri/pseuds/enmayri
Summary: In a realm where the sun never rises, it's hard to see the brighter side of things. Frank makes do. He has his best friends, endless entertainment during the trials, and can fuck whenever he wants. Doesn't get much better than that.Unfortunately, the Entity is sick of Frank's shit.Alternate title: PLEASE GOD STOP NERFING LEGION.
Relationships: Danny "Jed Olsen" Johnson | The Ghost Face/ Frank Morrison, Evan MacMillan | The Trapper/Frank Morrison, Jeffrey "Jeff" Johansen/Frank Morrison, Joey/Frank Morrison
Comments: 47
Kudos: 290





	1. A Bed To Sleep In

Coldwind Farm was... well, cold. Not Canada cold, fuck no, but the air definitely chilled the lungs and if you stayed in one place for too long it felt like the cold was trying to creep out of the ground and into your shoes.

The discomfort alone gave Frank the advantage.

A deep _tong_ shook through the air. Frank felt it in his bones, deep and thunderous, like a resounding affirmation of the Entity's satisfaction as it hauled another body into the sky. He turned away, grinning beneath his mask.

The survivors had been fools this trial. Skittish, panicky, so hilariously loyal. Too busy mending and saving and healing one another to repair the generators. What two they had done had been side by side on the far end of the farm, leaving the remaining generators so close to one another that Frank had little issue patrolling between them.

It was exactly there he found Claudette. Predictable.

Some part of it made him mad. Indignation rose in his throat, and Frank couldn't tell whether it was anger at his hunt being less fun, or anger that the survivors just didn't _want_ it enough. Didn't want to win. To survive. Shamelessly complacent with going back to their campfire empty-handed, with nothing but the sore echoes of stab wounds to show for the suffrage.

Claudette screamed. Frank pulled his knife from her ribs and somehow felt more irritated. She screamed in pain and fear, but it was so avoidable. Fuck, there had been plenty of times Frank himself had returned to the Entity's pockets with a sour mood and a bruised ego. Plenty of times the survivors had escaped him-- on maps too big for his stamina, or when they communicated and coordinated themselves like they should.

 _This_ felt like an absolute waste of his time.

Frank wiped the blade across his sleeve and watched the woman crawl. The desperation was almost entertaining. He cocked a brow at her and leaned against the pallet she'd failed to drop in his face.

Crawl, crawl, crawl. She knew she'd die if she got hooked again. Must feel terrible knowing that.

Frank snorted. He twiddled the blade in his hand and wondered where the last man standing was. Could be waiting for her to get hooked so he could find the hatch, but that'd be too smart. More likely that he lingered close by, waiting for Claudette to mend herself enough that he could do a drive-by pick-up.

Comical, but stale.

With a sigh, Frank pushed himself from the pallet and followed the blood. Claudette had crawled her way out of the shack and around the corner. She inched away from him on an elbow, one hand held up as if to shield herself from a blow.

"Please," she whimpered.

It gave Frank pause. What if he did let her go? Let the games continue? Prolong them in spite of the Entity watching overhead, hungry for sacrifices? He smiled at the thought. Fuck the government.

Heavy footsteps came from behind him, and a man yelled for Claudette with panic in his voice. Frank turned, and something cracked against the side of his head.

He hit the ground hard. It knocked the air from his lungs, left him wheezing in the dirt. Blinding, delirious pain split through his skull, showering his vision with spots of light and sending a wave of nausea all the way down to his feet. When he opened his eyes, the world spun. His mask laid in the dead grass a few feet away. His knife was much closer, just in front of him. Frank reached out and grasped it with a white knuckled grip, as if it alone could pull him back.

"Fuck," he groaned.

Slowly, he pushed himself up onto his elbows. Blood dripped down into the dirt. Frank wavered, got a knee under him, and rose further.

"Oh my god," Adam said from behind him. "They... they bleed."

 _Oh, we bleed alright_ , Frank thought viciously, gritting his teeth as he climbed to his feet with heavy aid from the wall. They sure as shit weren't supposed to bleed in the trial, though.

Both nuisances were gone by the time Frank steadied himself. He leaned against the shack, panting and dizzy. His grip on the knife only tightened.

"I'll fucking show you _bleed_ ," he growled.

Dizziness be damned, Frank went hunting. He found Claudette almost immediately, on the exact same generator he'd found her on before, and plunged his knife so deep into her back he felt her heartbeat through the handle. He left her there. Adam, so loyal, so compassionate, came for her. Frank cut the man's throat mid-heal. Claudette screamed louder than he'd ever heard, hands held up as Adam's blood showered down across her. The noise penetrated Frank's ears like a knife of its own, and he stumbled backwards. He laid out in the dirt, panting and in pain, as the two survivors bled out at his feet. Something angry clawed his mind, demanded he sacrifice them, and Frank knew it was the Entity's influence.

Fuck the Entity. There was no way Frank could pick their asses up with his head so throttled. There was also no fucking way he should have gotten hurt at all, so really, this was the Entity's fault in the first place and Frank would be damned if it didn't get what it deserved.

It took less than three minutes for the survivors to bleed out. The entire time, they spoke to one another. Voices hush like they didn't want Frank to hear, apologizing and promising they'd do better, and that it would all be okay.

That, added with the nausea Frank already felt... he could have rolled over and puked right then and there.

Adam died first. He stared off into the distance with greying eyes, and his hand sat limp in Claudette's palm. She panted lightly, slowly fading as well.

"Why?" she whispered.

Frank leaned against the hook stand, head hung between his knees and hands overlapped on the back of his neck. He raised his head to glare at her.

Claudette's face twisted with sympathy. "You're... just a kid."

Frank angled his leg to kick her in the mouth. She didn't flinch at the threat. Didn't blink. He stood instead, and left the corpses. Didn't matter which way he went. The world fell apart in the distance, restructuring itself to the Entity's will. Coldwind Farm became a nondescript forest of oak and yew, and the path Frank made no attempt to follow formed before him as if to make a point about the inevitability of his direction. Made for a good excuse to hide his head in his hands as he walked.

The camp came sooner than he'd expected. Frank stumbled over a log and crashed face first beside the firepit with a groan. It felt like the motion dislodged his brain; he swore he could feel it bouncing about in his skull.

The Pig laughed at him. "Didn't know you were that cold, Canadian."

Frank rolled to the side, propped his feet up on one of the surrounding logs, and crossed his arms. The canopy spun. He closed his eyes and hummed.

"Just rather jump in the fire than be in your company," he said cheerfully.

Amanda chuckled. Her boot nudged his shoulder. "You've got blood everywhere."

"Thanks, it's mine."

She chuckled again, but after a moment of silence in which she seemed to study him further, she reached for his hood. He slapped her hand away.

"Don't touch me, Pigbrat."

"What happened?"

Frank sneered at her. Mock-ready curiosity veiled as concern was not something he had any patience for at the moment.

"You could have a concussion," she said.

" _You_ could have a concussion."

Amanda stared at him. He turned away from her.

The fire was roaring, brilliant and bright. It hurt Frank's eyes, and the heat cooked at his skin. His head pounded between his ears. He needed to go to bed, but bed meant walking to the lodge, which meant the rest of the Legion finding out he'd been domed. Normally Frank would welcome the attention. Joey and Suzie were coddlers, and their doting entertained Frank equally as much as teasing them about it did. But Jules would pester him until he actually went to Sally just to shut her up, and Frank didn't have the energy to deal with the wailing nurse. Didn't have the stomach either.

"I'm gonna puke," he mumbled.

"Gross. Want me to go get Julie? Or Joey?"

"No, fuck you. Don't tell anyone shit."

Of all the bastard people to appear on the other side of the fire, it was Danny. His head tilted curiously when he saw Frank, and a deep chuckle came from his chest.

"Aww, what happened baby boy?" he jeered.

"Concussion," Amanda said simply.

Frank glared at her from over his shoulder. "I'll make a fucking jacket out of you. I swear I will."

"Been messing with the hillbilly again?" Ghostface tutted at him. "I thought you'd learned after he tossed you guys from the second story of the farmhouse."

"God, you're loud," Frank groaned.

Danny's head tilted again. "You never seemed to mind that before."

"Nobody wants to hear about you two fucking," Amanda growled. She stood, leaving Frank laying miserably by the campfire with Danny watching intently, and headed in the direction of her personal pocket.

The next second Danny was standing over Frank, staring down from behind his mask. He stepped across him, one foot on each side of Frank's hips, and dropped. Frank coughed at the sudden weight and curled into himself the best he could.

"You are such a bastard," he growled. "Did you not hear me say I was going to puke?"

"Sure didn't," Danny said. His gloved fingers stroked down Frank's cheek. "You know, you're pretty cute when you're in pain."

"Fuck you, I'm cute regardless," Frank panted. He pushed at the man's chest. "Get off me. I can't fucking breathe."

Danny stayed where he was. If anything, his presence grew. Hands explored up Frank's jacket, too warm against already flushed skin, and Danny ground his hips down to get a resistant groan from the man under him.

It was all Frank could do not to vomit on him. The heat of pain and pleasure created a new wave of nausea in his stomach, and Frank started struggling. Danny, the damn fool, thought it was one of their games. He grabbed Frank's wrists and leaned in to whisper hot breath across his neck.

Frank felt lightheaded. In a last ditch effort to get Danny off him, he dug his heels in the dirt and bucked hard. It dislodged the man, who grunted as he fell over Frank, giving him time to roll out from beneath Danny's chest. He leaned against a log and groaned.

"Shit," Danny said from behind him. "You're actually hurt, aren't you?"

" _No_ ," Frank hissed. "I just _love_ pity, as we all know."

"You should go see Sally." Danny tucked his chin into Frank's shoulder and blew in his ear. He laughed when Frank jerked away. "This is hardly fun when there's no threat."

"Fuck you. Fuck Sally. I just want to go to bed."

"Well, come see me when you do eventually, inevitably, go to her."

Frank grunted. Danny grabbed him by the jaw and wrenched his head back to plant a kiss on the corner of Frank's mouth.

"Don't forget me," he whispered dangerously.

"Kiss the darkest part of my lily white ass."

"Go see Sally and I will."

Frank jerked his head away and crawled to his feet, leaning on logs and trees for support, and hobbled his way out into the woods. Behind him, Danny called out to say Frank certainly wasn't going in the direction of Sally's pocket. He was blatantly ignored.

Outside of the trial areas, the world was less scrambled. Less shattered. Every pocket had its designated place, all centered around the campfire. One direction led to the lodge, another to the meat plant, etcetera, etcetera. Unfortunately for Frank, dizziness and delirium were detriments to one's personal compass. He wasn't sure which way he'd gone, but he knew it was quiet. He fell against a broken tree once he'd gone far enough that the light of the firepit was hidden by trunks and brush, and he laid his head in his hands.

The left side of his skull radiated pain. Hot and foggy, clogging between Frank's ears like cotton. So far from the good pain, the visceral pain. Pain that made you feel alive and present. This pain was dragging and feverish, the kind that slowed you down, made your limbs heavy. Frank hated it.

Maybe he should go see Sally, just to get it over with.

A heavy creak startled Frank. He jumped, red-faced for his lack of observance, and stared up at the Trapper's mask. The man stood quiet, studying Frank. Evan never strayed far from his own turf, and Frank cursed himself for the stupidity. It would have been all he fucking needed to step in a goddamn trap again.

Evan gestured to his head. "Bleeding."

Frank swiped blood from his temple and huffed. "Survivor got me with a pipe or something."

Evan's great chest rippled with the chuckle he let out.

"Yeah, yeah," Frank grumbled, dropping his head back into his hands. "Fucking hilarious, man."

Fingers grazed Frank's hood, and he jumped again, slapping Evan's hand away. Evan pointed to his head again, insistent, and Frank tried to lean out of range.

"Fuck off, dude. I don't need your help."

But it didn't seem like Evan wanted to help. He reached for Frank again, grabbing a handful of the hood, and there was no tugging away from that grip. Frank fought anyway. Fought like a rabbit in a trap, he was sure. Evan probably enjoyed that.

His fingers dug into Evan's wrist, twisting and pulling, trying to break free. With each second he failed, his heart beat harder. Panic. Ice cold panic. Frank remembered what those traps felt like. Remembered the interest Evan watched him with as he struggled to get out, and definitely remembered how it felt when Evan ripped him from it. Pain entertained him.

Not _his_ pain, goddamnit. Frank pulled his knife free from his belt. Evan pulled him closer, and in the same movement, Frank stuck the bastard in the shoulder. For a moment, he was let go. Evan grunted, and the sudden weightlessness of being released jarred Frank so badly he stumbled. But he didn't hit the ground. Evan caught him by the throat.

Somewhere in the deep recesses of Frank's mind, lust spun. It wasn't air he was losing-- Frank gasped and wheezed freely. It was blood. Evan's massive hand pinched in all the right places, and damn was it hot as hell how effortlessly he lifted Frank up. But there was no time to enjoy that. You don't last long without blood flow to your fucking skull. Spots danced in Frank's eyes, and that cotton feeling in his ears grew heavier until he couldn't feel anything but the desperate pulse of his own heart. With his fleeting consciousness, he got a few more stabs in. One to the bicep, another to the forearm. Or maybe hand? Frank couldn't remember. The world was falling away.

And then suddenly it all rushed back. Frank sucked in air, dizzy from the onslaught of blood flooding back into his brain. He was laid over Evan's shoulder like a fucking survivor, and the Trapper was hauling him through the woods.

"What the fuck do you want from me, huh?" Frank panted, kicking out to test the man's grip. "Drop me, asshole!"

Renewed agony hit Frank like a train. He groaned, falling limp and clutching at his head. It was overwhelming. Irritating. He couldn't focus on anything else. Frank was absolutely fucking sick of it.

Then Evan leaned forward. Frank clutched at the man's back, startled, until his ass met a table and Evan released him and stepped back.

Sally's shack. Frank glared at the Trapper with one eye, letting the other rest closed in a half wince. Evan looked equally unhappy as he sat across from him in a chair, blood running free down his chest and arm.

"How kind."

"Shut up," Evan snapped. "You're a pain."

"I'm _in_ pain," Frank crowed. He surveyed around himself quickly, and found several pieces of old paper strewn about the table. He balled one up in his hands and chucked it at the Trapper's head.

Evan blocked it with a forearm and leaned towards Frank like he was going to throttle him.

Sally chose then to come in and wail her shrill, pained wail. Ignoring Frank's agonized whine, she instantly reached for where he was wounded. She always seemed to know. Sharp nails fingered through his hair, pushing the short feathery undercut up and away from his left ear. She wailed again.

The needle startled Frank. His eyes widened when it pierced his scalp, and he couldn't stop himself from leaning away from it. She sure as shit wasn't gentle either.

"Jesus fuck, Sally," he groaned. Her free hand took him by the jaw to still him. "Okay, okay, okay. God _damn_."

"Baby," Evan grumbled.

"Oh, fuck you, dude," Frank spat.

After a second, a paper ball hit Frank in the forehead. He opened his eyes, jaw clenched, and glared at Evan, who had his thick arms crossed in front of his chest and seemed to dare Frank to say something.

Sally let out a low cry, as if to signal that she had finished, and moved onto Evan. Frank fingered at the suture. It was a couple inches long, just above his left ear, and thankfully on the shaved portion of his head where the hair wasn't long enough to get painfully caught in scabs. That survivor had actually gotten him pretty good.

Evan didn't seem to mind the needle. He did, however, mind the paper ball that struck him in the chest. His head turned to settle on Frank, who leaned back on an elbow and inconspicuously picked dirt out from under his nails.

One last wail signaled that Sally was finished, and she disappeared further into the shack. Evan stood silently and headed for the door. Frank wondered how long it would be before his head stopped hurting.

A paper ball hit the uninjured side of his head. Frank twisted to glare at the doorway, but Evan was gone.

Grinning, Frank pocketed the paper ball and headed for the lodge.

Dead leaves became snow underfoot. The tall, thick trunked trees of the forest slowly ascended to pines, fewer and further between as Frank reached the lodge. He could already see Julie through the open doorway. She waved at him. Frank threw his hood up and smiled back.

"Bad game?" she asked.

Sometimes it threw Frank off how quick on the whip she was. He nodded, and walked into her open arms. Nestled against her skin, Frank let himself relax for the first time that day. Julie smelled good. Clean and earthy, like a fresh layer of snow.

"M'gonna shower," he mumbled into her neck.

"Good. You smell."

Frank snorted. The moment he turned around, the flat of Julie's palm smacked his ass. 

In Frank's respectful opinion, every other pocket was absolutely shit in comparison to the lodge. They had hot water, food, and warm beds. Warm bodies, too. Even fucking heaters on nights when the Entity decided Ormond's mountain winter just wasn't winter enough. He didn't take long in the shower for several reasons. Having hot water was a luxury, but they had long since lost the ability to control it. A timer started the moment you turned the shower on. Get in, get clean, get out, or else it would turn you into a lobster before you managed to crawl to safety. He wasn't too keen on testing the limitations of his concussion either.

Frank wiped the mirror and yawned at the reflection. Damp hair stuck to his forehead, just long enough to reach his brows. He'd had it trimmed into an undercut for years, spoiled by the ease of the style. Push it back from his face, let it fall as it wanted-- Frank didn't care. Where it dried, it stayed. Looked good either way.

He tilted his head to the side, looking for the sutures, and found them quickly. Damn, they _had_ gotten him good. That bitch would scar, he knew. Get into enough fights and you learned which marks were going to stick around. One such scar lay across the bridge of Frank's nose. Thin and pale, shrunken by over ten years of aging, yet still very much there. It was the one of the only visible scars that had stubbornly refused to fade. The only one Frank wanted to.

He remembered when Julie first asked about it. Frank had lied straight to her face. Snowboarding, he'd said. Trees fly by and damn, those branches can be vicious.

What else would he have said? The truth? That his father, his real father, broke his nose when he was six?

Julie had learned the truth eventually. Years later, when situations and mood cooked the perfect stew for a drunk, emotional Frank ready to spill his guts to his best friends. And now... now that dark voice in the back of Frank's head needed constantly leashed. The voice that told him his friends looked at him and saw that broken-nosed kid, hurt and lost and helpless.

Frank closed his eyes and bit at the barbell in his tongue.

A knock kindly interrupted his moping. Frank pulled his hoodie on, preparing for the cold blast when the door opened rather than for modesty. Every person in the lodge had seen one another naked. Too many skinny dipping dares. 

Joey peeked around the corner and eyed Frank up and down with a grin. "You shoulda waited for me."

"Too tired," Frank said simply. 

"Mm, I coulda made it worth your while."

"Too tired."

Joey's brows knit, and he forced a smile. "I guess you're going straight to bed then? We were gonna watch a movie on the projector."

Frank rubbed his eyes and didn't answer. The bathroom door closed, and Joe was gone.

It was almost hard to be clipped with his friend. Joey was impulsive and headstrong, almost arrogant, and he liked to flaunt. Sometimes Frank had to remind him that it wasn't Joey who knew better.

Sleep didn't come easily to Frank. He laid in bed and tossed and turned, sometimes in agony from the frequent painful pulses in his skull and sometimes just from general restlessness. It didn't help that the rest of the Legion were making no attempt to be quiet. Each could be heard loud and clear downstairs, hollering at the movie or at one another. Joey, as if trying to ensure Frank heard him and understood that he wasn't perturbed by Frank's aloofness, was the loudest. 

It got to the point that each sound radiated pain, and Frank jumped up from his bed, seething. He threw his door open and leaned over the rail, glaring down at the three who looked at him in surprise. 

"Shut the fuck up!" he screamed. 

"Just come down and hang out with us!" Joey retorted. 

Frank slammed his door shut. He regretted it immediately-- agony split his vision, and Frank curled into a ball on the end of his bed with a whimper. 

When the pain finally melted into something he could handle, Frank stood again. He threw his pants on and zipped his hoodie up and grabbed his jacket. Downstairs, he could still hear them talking.

Frank opened his window and climbed out. 

He wasn't sure where he intended to go. Danny would coerce him into sex. Anna would try to baby him. The Spirit and Nurse wailed too loudly, Plague was disgusting, and most of the others were just creeps. Amanda would probably give him a bed for the night, but the meat plant stank and Frank didn't think he could stomach it. Myers might tolerate his presence, but... you never knew with him.

It left Frank heading westward, or at least relative westward if you considered the lodge northern. Frank wasn't sure direction existed in the Entity's realm. He watched where he stepped this time. Good thing, too, because Evan wasn't shy about trapping his land and laying that shit thick. Frank stepped over and avoided so many he lost count, until he finally found the Trapper. 

The man's back was turned to Frank, but there was no doubt in his mind Evan knew he was there. He stood still, calm, as if waiting. Frank approached warily. 

"What are you doing?"

"Watching," Evan grumbled. 

Frank peered out into the forest and saw nothing. He frowned. "Watching what?"

Evan looked at him. "Still bleeding?"

"Still got a headache, but nah, not bleeding. What are you watching?"

The Trapper turned and walked away. He got about twenty feet before he turned on his heel and stared at Frank, who had followed behind carefully. 

"You want something," Evan said. It wasn't a question. 

"Wanna know what you were watching," Frank replied, grinning.

There was no reply. There was no movement. There was just the Trapper, massive shoulders framed by fading light peering between the darkness of the woods. The mask was shrouded and featureless in the shadows, but held an intelligent weight that sent a shiver up Frank's spine. This, he realized, was the terrifying last sight of many people. None of the bullshit lies sitting in his back pocket would pass. It would be like trying to convince a lion you're not made of meat. 

"My head," he finally admitted. "It's fucking killing me and my assholes don't know how to shut up. I need somewhere quiet to sleep it off."

Evan snorted. "Can't silence your own maggots?"

"They're not maggots," Frank snapped. "They're my friends. They're just loud."

"They're not maggots," Evan said slowly, stepping towards him. Frank matched each with a step back. "They're your friends. But they don't care that you're bleeding, and they won't keep it down so you can sleep."

Frank's defense died in his throat. The way Evan held silence, you'd think he was mute. When he did speak, words short and to the point, you thought he was simple. But Evan was none of those things. The man was observant and clever, quick when your guard was down. Dangerous.

Frank loved dangerous. 

He stopped stepping back. He let Evan walk up to him, tower above him, and Frank glared at the Trapper's mask. He pulled Frank's hood down, exposing the stitched cut. Thankfully, he didn't touch it. Didn't seem to have to, because pain radiated through Frank's head anyways and he had to clench his jaw to keep from wincing.

Without another word, the Trapper turned and walked away. Frank stood where he was, finally letting himself rub his eyes in an attempt to relieve the pressure. When he looked up, Evan was standing a short ways away. Waiting for him. Frank followed, and Frank followed _close_. More and more traps passed by. He swore Evan was trying to lead him into them, especially when Evan took one long step forward without so much as a grunt and left Frank tripping to escape the jaws. 

The MacMillan Estate was... pretty much as Frank had expected. A dark, dimly lit mansion smack in the middle of Evan's massive wooded realm. Two stories tall with a great surround porch and adjoining balcony. A rich man's home. Fitting for the Entity's favorite. Unlike most of the buildings across the realms, this one was not in any state of disrepair. It made sense to Frank, in a way. They rarely saw the Trapper around the campfire. He probably spent a generous amount of time in upkeep. 

Inside, it was warm. The lights were out, but they weren't necessary. An otherworldly glow lingered in the halls, as it did for the entirety of the Entity's pockets. Evan led Frank upstairs, to the left, and opened a door close to the end of the hall. Inside, a massive bed that was plush under Frank's curious hand. 

"Guest room," Evan explained. 

"Ooh, I'm a guest?" Frank kicked his shoes off and splayed himself out on the bed. Every sore spot in his body seemed to simultaneously relax.

"If you're not a guest, you're a trespasser."

"I'm a guest then," Frank said. He turned over and hid his face in the pillows. "Thanks man. I'll pay you back somehow."

"Make a mess and you'll get another concussion," Evan growled.

Frank didn't reply. He was already drifting off to sleep, satisfied with having memorized the path to the Trapper's house and even more satisfied thinking of all the things he could do with the knowledge.


	2. Battle

"No blood bullshit."

"Aw, why not?"

Frank glared at the man between his legs. "Because I like the idea of fucking in this bed regularly, instead of just once."

Danny grinned up at him. "Do you think he checks the room when you leave? Looks for scandalous signs of sin?" He crawled up Frank's chest to breathe hot in his neck. "Maybe he sniffs the sheets."

"That's fucking gross," Frank chuckled.

"I don't know, I kind of like the way you smell," Danny whispered. He bit and tugged at the spike in Frank's ear.

It sent shivers all throughout Frank's body. Sometimes it irritated him how well Danny could fuck him up. Their dynamic was a constant battle-- that's what made it so good, so satisfying. A battle won without struggle was no fucking battle at all.

Frank ran his fingers through the man's hair. He kept it short for ease, simple because he didn't care what it looked like. All that mattered to Danny in terms of visual was Ghostface.

A sigh escaped Danny's lips, pressed against the neck under him, and it was Frank's cue to tighten his hold. He ripped Danny's head back and latched himself onto the man's throat. Danny goddamn purred in reply.

Their hips ground together. Frank sucked another hickey in Danny's neck so the man wouldn't hear him moan. It was the satisfaction of denial more than anything else. Warm hands explored under Frank's hoodie, instantly zoning in on the barbell piercing in his nipple. They rubbed and pinched, and this time Frank moaned clearly.

"I love that little thing," Danny whispered, sultry.

"I'm sure you do," Frank breathed. "You're just the kind of slut who would."

Danny hummed and twisted the piercing, stealing all the air from Frank's lungs. "What does that say about you?"

He didn't get the chance to answer. Danny leaned down and pressed their lips together, and the battle began. There was nothing kind about it. All teeth and tongue, push and pull, sucking and biting. It made Frank lightheaded in the most intoxicating way. Danny tasted good, like leather and metal. It _felt_ good.

When he broke for air, cursing his smoker's lung, Danny took the opportunity to claw long red marks down Frank's back and into his pants. Frank arched into the delicious burn and rubbed their hips harder together. It got the exact reaction he wanted from Danny, who cursed.

"I'm going to make you cry in this bed," Danny growled. "I'm going to make you feel so good, baby boy."

"Fuck you," Frank groaned, flushing at the pet name. It made his cock jump in his pants and it irritated him all at the same time.

Grinning, Danny pulled Frank's belt off and his pants along with it. A tender kiss was planted on the inside of Frank's knee, and then a hand slapped Frank so hard he saw stars.

It hurt. Burned. Good burn, none of that blistered hand on the stove bullshit. If it was at all possible, Frank got even harder from it. Danny too. He could feel the man's cock pressing against him through layers of clothing, hot and wanting. So good.

A second slap took Frank's breath away, and Danny's lips kept him from regaining any. This kiss was as tender as they'd ever get. A shitty apology in bites and licks, as if Frank needed one in the first place. He bit back hard, and grinned when the taste of blood met his tongue. Danny sat up, eyes narrowed and a line of shiny red worming slow down his chin. His hand rose, and Frank closed his eyes for the impact. Instead, a palm grabbed Frank through his boxers. He gasped in surprise, teeth clenched but moan still escaping.

"Oh, pretty voice," Danny teased. "When you're not cursing, anyways."

In defiance, Frank let his head fall back and moaned loud, "Fuuuuck."

A hand planted itself over Frank's mouth. He cocked a brow at Danny, who stared off at nothing, listening. Frank nipped the fingers until they let go.

"He's in a trial, asshole. Why would I bring you here if he was just wandering through his pocket?"

"Because you're a glutton for punishment," Danny retorted. He leaned down and licked at Frank's ear. "Plus, I think the threat of getting caught turns you on. You like it."

"You're way more into this than I am," Frank said.

Danny tightened his grip on Frank's cock and chuckled when Frank groaned. "What do you think he'd do if he caught us?"

"Flay us."

"Maybe he'd take one look at you, baby boy," Danny whispered, pulling Frank's boxers off, "and he'd want a piece too." He spat pink in his hand and pressed two fingers inside Frank without warning. "Maybe he'd see this sweet little hole and hear your sweet little moans, and he'd want to see what sounds _he_ could get you to make."

Frank laid his arm over his flushed face and panted, so fucking close to admitting defeat. The invading fingers and overwhelming imagery was driving him up the wall. It only worsened when Danny added another finger and started thrusting harder, and then he moaned and it was the hottest thing Frank had heard in his goddamn life.

"How big do you think he is?"

"Fuck, Danny..." Frank glared at him. "You're getting off on this."

"I want to watch him fuck you almost as much as I want to fuck you." Danny's grin widened, almost maniacal. "Do you think he'd agree to double teaming you?"

That was enough of that. Frank grabbed a hold of Danny's shirt and whipped them around, planting him against the bed. Danny's cock stood straight to attention, tall and weeping against Frank's ass. Fuck, Danny really had been getting off on it. He raised himself up just enough to press the head of the cock inside him, and then dropped.

Danny moaned louder than Frank did. Another good burn. It inched pleasure up Frank's spine and smothered his stomach in heat. He grinned down at Danny, swelling with authority now that the tables had turned.

"Feel good?"

"Feels ama-" A slap cut the words off and Danny's head reeled to the side.

Frank laughed.

"Feels amazing," Danny repeated, sighing contentedly. He grabbed Frank by the hips and jerked up hard.

It didn't feel like it could get any deeper than that. Frank laid one more slap across Danny's cheek, two for two, before he raised himself up on his knees and gave them a pace.

For each bounce, Danny's hips raised to meet halfway. Eager and demanding at the same time, with fingernails clawing red angry lines across Frank's stomach and hips and ass. It burned, goddamnit. It burned so fucking good.

His own fists balled into Danny's shirt, half to keep himself together and half for the stability. Try as he might not to, Frank imagine Evan below him instead. He'd be massive, Frank was sure. Strong enough that Frank wouldn't even have to lift himself up and bounce on his dick. One hand tight on Frank's hip could probably do it for him easily. And god, he could see it. Feel it. The warmth of Evan under him and how thick his chest and arms and cock would be. How tight he'd have Frank by the hips, enough to leave bruises. How hard he'd fuck him.

Frank faltered, moaning, and Danny shoved him backwards. He pulled Frank's leg over his shoulder and went right back into their pace. The thrusts hit him a different way. A different angle. Each teased across Frank's prostate lightly and made his brain buzz.

"Fuck," Frank whined.

He raised his hips, trying desperately to get the angle he needed. Danny seemed to know, and shoved him back down into place.

"Fuck you," Frank growled. "Fuck me right."

A slap hit him hard across the face, and in the same movement Danny did hit him right. It had Frank moaning hot, grabbing at the man's thigh hard enough to scratch. The angle left his shoulders against the bed and his hips in Danny's grip, prostate speared repeatedly by the dick inside him.

Tears collected in the corners of his eyes. Frank felt delirious. Dizzy. Not enough air but not enough pleasure. He grabbed Danny by the shirt and pulled him close. Their tongues flicked together, and Frank moaned in the man's mouth in the exact way he knew Danny was weak to.

"Harder. God, fuck me," Frank demanded, lips still pressed against Danny's. "Just a little more."

"Fuck," Danny choked. "Fuck, baby boy."

The pet name. Fuck. It pushed Frank to the peak. He came into his hand with a hoarse moan, and Danny followed behind after just a few more thrusts.

They laid beside one another on the bed, dozing lightly. No cuddling. No kisses. No cleanup. Well, some cleanup. Just enough to not be sticky and uncomfortable as they put their clothes back on.

Danny reached over and tried to shake the bed headboard. Frank zipped his hoodie up and watched impassively as the man did the same routine on the footboards.

"The fuck are you doing?"

"Checking to see how sturdy it is," he said, turning to Frank with a sly smile. "It's very sturdy. Next time I'm gonna tie you up here."

"If you can hold me down long enough," Frank challenged.

Danny dove for him.

He had to give it to Ghostface-- the man was a snake. Thick where it counted, thin where he needed to be. Outside of basketball, Frank had never worked out in his life. He smoked and he drank and he snacked constantly. The rest of the Legion joked about his metabolism day in, day out, and Frank himself would admit freely, it was probably the only reason he stayed lean. Plus, he figured, Danny was probably already into this BDSM bullshit. He knew exactly how to pin Frank down, wrists caught under Danny's knees and hips flush to hips flush to the floor. Hands, one on top of the other, laced around Frank's neck and squeezed lightly.

It was supposed to be hot, damnit. It was supposed to be sexy. But Frank's brain chose that moment to spin a different story, and suddenly Frank wanted to escape more than he wanted anything else.

Above him, a man who used to hold him underwater until he stopped struggling, to "train" Frank how to keep from panicking. A man who beat Frank endlessly when he came home drunk, ranting about how his wife left him because she was a coward. A man who would pin Frank down in the same way and wrap his thin, bony hands around Frank's 12 year old neck and squeeze until Frank had no air left to sob. A faceless man, lost among the faces of other men. All the same.

Frank struggled like his life depended on it. He dug his heels into the mattress and bucked hard, but this time Danny held on. It did, however, give Frank enough time to free his neck and roll to the side, dragging Danny along with him off the bed. He landed on top of Danny, panting limp against the man's chest. Danny stared at him, brows knit as though he could tell Frank had been somewhere else just then, with someone else on top of him. Frank grinned at him and puffed out his chest.

"Told you, you can't hold me down long enough."

Nothing wrong, see? Nothing wrong. Nothing happened. All jokes, back to normalcy. But Danny's frown persisted, and his mouth opened at the same time a thump came from downstairs. The next second they were both on their feet, crouched beside the bed.

"In a trial?" Danny whispered.

"It must have been a quick one!" Frank whispered back.

Lightfoot, both men made their way to the door. Across the hall, a window sat open and ready for their escape. Frank practically dove out. Danny followed more meticulously, ensuring nothing was out of place and closing the window quietly behind them. With a quick survey to clear the yard, they climbed down from the balcony and sprinted out into the forest. They didn't stop until they made it to the campfire.

Frank collapsed beside Anna with a groan. He immediately felt her hand pet the back of his hood in silent comfort.

"Running from something?" the Doctor drawled. "Or from someone?"

"None of your fucking business," Frank panted. "God, I gotta stop smoking."

"I've been telling you that," Danny teased.

"Oh, shut the fuck up."

"They're fighting back."

Every head at the campfire turned to Adiris. The woman was soaking wet, headdress off and white silk dress sticking to her frame.

"I was shoved into a creek today," she hissed.

Anna stopped patting Frank's back and reached out for Adiris' hand instead. The woman accepted it, and came to sit beside the Huntress.

"Suddenly we are not towers any longer," she said quietly. "We are fallible. Able to be injured and distressed."

"That british bastard shoved me off of that black girl during my last trial," Amanda spat. "Right as I was putting the helmet on her."

"They moved Evan's traps just today," Herman added. "Dragged them across the wreckyard so he wouldn't hear them snap, and then led him into them when he gave chase."

Frank shared a glance with Danny and stood. The rest of the Legion needed to know. He headed in the direction of the lodge, trying to swallow the lump in his throat. Something was happening. Something was changing.

Fingering gently across the scabbed cut in Frank's scalp, he found himself grinning.

A battle won without struggle was no fucking battle at all.


	3. This Time

When they said the survivors were fucking around with the killers, they weren't goddamn joking.

A new trial area had been added. A bit larger than Frank preferred, but at least in familiar territory. Another pocket of the Hillbilly's Coldwind Farm with several granaries, barns, and a rather large water system attached to an empty tower that the survivors could run through and up and over. Lots of running. Lots of layers.

Lots of fucking creaking and groaning too. The place was goddamn falling apart. Even as he fumed about it, Frank could hear some metal contraption in the distance break off and hit the ground.

Frank really needed to stop smoking. Which was hard, because throughout each chase resulting in the survivors bleeding, escaping, and mending one another, all Frank fucking wanted was a cigarette. The big british bastard was the worst. David fucking King. Frank wasn't a fan. The collar of his jacket had been tugged twenty fucking times that trial to pull his attention away from someone else. This time, he was going to get the little shit.

David _fucking_ King didn't expect Frank to drop the woman from his shoulder and turn on him. He was too close-- looking for a quick unhook, not the collective aggression of the Legion on him. One lunge and blood sprayed from a deep gash in David's ribcage. Somehow he still had the strength to flee.

Frank gave chase. Fuck the woman on the ground. Fuck Claudette crouched on the other side of the cornfield line, waiting like Frank didn't know exactly where she was. He was going fucking kill David King.

David's path was clean, decisive. He'd obviously been in this area before, which gave him the advantage. Frank tightened his grip on his blade. Not enough of one. Each turn and vault closed them in on the water tower. David probably hoped he could juke him out, get Frank to drop and cut him off from below. Frank did not drop. He chased David straight across the groaning metal walkway and over the shell of the water tower, where David froze.

Frank could see why he'd frozen. Fuck, Frank froze too. The adjoining walkway was... no longer there.

David turned to him, eyes wide, and Frank wanted to laugh in his face. Desperate, David dashed through Frank's slash and back the way they'd come. The walkway fell apart right under him, swinging back and smashing into the water tower faster than any of them could react.

It was worse than the concussion. Frank knew that much immediately. When he opened his eyes, he could see that he was fucked. Completely, utterly fucked.

The collapsed walkway had swung the ground out from under Frank's feet, sending him careening backwards. The water tower half collapsed too, bending diagonal under the new weight. Frank had landed in the shallow water of the tower with the broken structure of the walkway practically fucking on top of him.

Water poured down. The aqueduct had broken too.

Frank squirmed. He was pinned to the wall, leg stuck under the twisted metal, knife nowhere to be found. It was damn cold, too. As if any of this shit wasn't enough.

David groaned from a few feet away. He laid prone on the other side of the water tower with railing atop him. He pushed himself into a sitting position and used one free leg to kick at the railing. It didn't budge.

"Bugger," he muttered.

Seething and wet, Frank fought with his own metal problem. He squirmed, struggled, and nothing moved. The weight sat full on his knee and calf. Impossible to slip out.

"David!"

Claudette appeared in the opening of the water tower with Kate right behind her. They sped over to David, splashing in the rising water, and quickly worked to free him. The metal groaned and shifted, creaking dangerously before it finally gave in to their collective strength. David crawled out. The railing crashed in the water, splashing Frank.

"Fuck you," he snapped.

"Fuck _me_?" David snapped back. "Fuck _you_!"

"Leave it, we got other things to worry about," Kate argued. As if to prove her point, she tightened the bandage around David's thigh to the point where he yelped.

Frank reupped his struggle. He grabbed anything he could reach, pulling and pushing, trying to find something that gave. If he couldn't get out from under it, he had to get it off him.

One slab of metal leaned when he pushed it, so Frank pressed himself back against the wall and used the stability to shove the damn thing. It gave, and pressure raised slightly from Frank's leg. He pulled, and then something else gave and collapsed further onto Frank, pinning him even tighter. Now he couldn't even move his fucking leg.

The water was rising.

Frank leaned against the wall and tried to just breathe. The water was rising. The water was rising. It was up to his chest now, inching closer to his shoulders. Soon it would be over his head, and Frank was going to drown.

Drown. Drown. Drown. Lungs full of water. No room for air. Remember what that feels like? Soggy, cold lungs. Chills you deeper than any outside cold than penetrate, and you're so desperate for air you can't stop trying to breathe. But there's nothing. Nothing but _water_.

"Stop," Frank whispered, eyes closed tight.

Drown, drown, drown. Frank shuddered and struggled harder. Suddenly his back was no longer against the wall, having slipped down from the wet, and Frank was underwater.

For one dumb moment, Frank couldn't do anything but let himself lay there. He stared upward. Arms reached down from the surface, digging into his hoodie, holding him under.

"Don't struggle, boy. Panic kills," a warbled voice said.

Frank lurched forward and took a great gulp of air when he broke the surface. He couldn't lean against the wall anymore. The leather of his jacket slid wet against wet, and his scrambling hands found nothing to grab onto.

And the water kept rising.

On the other side of the metal pile, Claudette pulled at scraps and railing.

"What the hell are you doing, Claudie?" David yelled.

"He'll drown!" she called back.

David stared at her and exchanged a bewildered look with Kate. "SO?"

Claudette didn't reply. She gave them a hard glare, brows knit and lips pressed into a thin line, and then went right back to work.

Frank had propped himself, panting, against a wavering shard of metal. Piece by piece was pulled away as the water got higher and higher, until Claudette was waist deep and Frank laid neck deep and there were no more pieces small enough for the survivor to pull away. She tugged and fell and got back up and tugged again, and nothing moved.

All Frank could think was: Why?

Why was she doing this? Blood stained the shoulder of her shirt where Frank had stuck her on the hook not ten minutes ago. Yet here she was, soaking wet and cutting her hands on metal shrapnel, determined to free him. For what?

" _You're just a kid,_ " he remembered her saying.

Anger bit into Frank. He shifted, ready to snap at the woman, and slipped off the metal instead. Water consumed him. It stung his eyes and his throat, and his hands scrabbled for support.

They found a hand.

It pulled him forward, and Frank sputtered. Claudette leaned over the metal, clutching his wrist, staring at him with wide eyes. Frank wanted to pull back. Her touch _burned_. He didn't want her help. This wasn't right. They weren't supposed to be helping him. This wasn't how it worked!

David appeared at her side, cursing loudly. He grabbed at the metal, pulling it away while Claudette held Frank above water. It was at his jaw now, and each splash filled his mouth with the sour liquid.

And then, Frank was free. David shoved a great mass of twisted grating to the side and Claudette pulled Frank's arm, and he could move. His leg was stiff, but it fucking worked. It fucking walked. It found ground and it kicked, and Frank made his way to the shallow opening of the water tower and collapsed on dry ground.

When he finally sat up some minutes later, Claudette and David were smartly gone.

Frank put his head in his hands and sat there. He could hear generator after generator rumble through the air to signal their completion, until a resounding alarm rang out for the gate opening. Then, silence.

" _You're just a kid_."

Frank grit his teeth so hard it hurt. She thought he was harmless. Too young. Nothing without that fucking knife.

"Fuck you," he growled. "Fuck you!"

Frank stood, body flooded with rage. He kicked anything within reach, threw shit around, tore apart whatever gave beneath his grip. Blinding white anger. It pulsed behind his eyes, fueling every action. And then, without warning, it was just gone, and Frank stared at the damage he'd done to his surroundings and felt empty.

Just a kid. Prone to fits. Angry. He's not working out here. New house. New people. Same response.

Frank crouched where he stood and hid himself in his arms. Why was this coming back now? What the fuck was wrong with him? He'd swallowed this ages ago! Stuck it down where it could never be seen again, hid it under years and years of earned hardness.

Opening his eyes, Frank found that he was no longer in Coldwind Farm. Beneath his feet were leaves, dead and dying, and the smell of pine filled his nose. He looked up. Snow drifted not far away. He'd been sent back to the Entity's pocket, placed close to the lodge. Hell, Frank was even dry.

How kind.

Frank turned away. He couldn't go to them like this.

To the rest of the Legion, Frank was a box to be unlocked. They found little hints as to what was inside, little peeks of what he hid, and they seemed to think that opening up would help him. Empty the box. Tell them. It helps. Heals.

Instead, Frank went looking for Danny. Nothing busied the mind like good bloody sex.

The campfire was empty aside from the lanky form of the Wraith warming his hands. His blank face turned as Frank approached, and he straightened.

"Seen Ghostface?"

"He's just gone to a trial, I'm afraid," the Wraith said.

Frank huffed like it was Wraith's fault for the inconvenience and stomped off. With no destination in mind, his feet led him towards the MacMillan Estate. The mansion was silent. Just what Frank wanted. Second best to sex was a quiet bed to sleep in. He'd only made it past the foyer when he was snatched up like a ragdoll.

"Hrrk- holy fuc-"

"This was for you, and you alone," Evan growled.

Frank hung from the man's grip on his jacket and grinned nonchalantly. "O-oh?"

"I don't want the Ghostface in my house."

"Oh!" Frank blinked at him. "You got cameras in that room or what?"

Evan dropped him like he was disgusted by the notion. "Sex smells."

"Shit, I'll spray some febreeze next time," he said. Evan's heavy gaze weighed down on him, and he put his hands up in a pacifying gesture. "That was a joke."

A grunt was the only acknowledgement Frank got.

"So," Frank smiled up at the man. "Do I still smell like sex?"

Evan still didn't reply. With a single finger, Frank played with the catch on the Trapper's overalls.

"Do you want me to?"

Instantly, Evan had him in his grip again. He dragged Frank backwards until the small of his back bumped against the great marble countertops of the kitchen, and Frank was laid out upon it.

"You annoy me," Evan growled.

Frank stretched his legs out, one on either side of the Trapper's hips, and used Evan's immovable body to pull himself closer. Hips pressing together, he grinned at the man above him.

"How much? Scale of 1 to 10."

A big hand reached up and grabbed Frank by the throat. Delicious pressure relieved him of any control as Evan leaned in and whispered, "10."

Frank giggled deliriously. The grip on his throat sent him to the clouds, high on lack of blood, lack of oxygen. Then Evan let go and sent Frank falling back to reality, and each breath in tasted better than the last.

There was no attempt to feel Frank up. Not even a try for a kiss. His pants were pulled to his thighs, and the simplicity of it, the straight-to-the-point lacking of foreplay was somehow really fucking hot. It burned in his stomach, magma in his groin, and fuck, he was already hard.

Two snaps and Evan's overalls fell away. Frank knew the man was set, but he didn't expect him to be built like a brick fucking shithouse. He wanted to run his hands across that chest, scratch marks into the skin that would never fade. Fuck, he wanted Evan to do exactly that to _him_.

It wasn't until something thick and hard was prodding at Frank's ass that he felt fear spike in him. He put a foot on Evan's shoulder and pushed. The man didn't even move.

"W-wait, what the fuck?" he stuttered. "You can't just fuckin-"

Evan's hands found anchor on Frank's hips, and Frank stiffened further.

"Wait, holy shit, wait wait wait!" Frank shook in the man's hands, eyes wide as he stared at Evan's impassive face. "Have you fucking- oh my god, you've never done this before?"

 _Or never cared to prep_ , a little voice whispered to Frank. It made his trembling worse. He swallowed hard on the lump in his throat and held his hand out.

"G-gimme your fucking hand."

It took a moment for Evan to comply. For a moment Frank was terrified he wouldn't. Maybe Evan would just rip into him, preparation be damned. No foreplay. Made sense that he might not care whether or not Frank liked this at all.

Fuck, Frank was in _way_ over his head.

But Evan did give Frank his hand. Palm up, as if in peace. Frank took the hand in his own and placed two of those big fingers on his tongue. He closed his eyes, face burning, and did his damnest to wet them as much as possible. It seemed to interest Evan, and quickly Frank wasn't needed to guide the fingers. They thrust against Frank's tongue, twisting around it and searching deeper. He tried to suppress the cough and gag that constricted his throat, but if anything Evan looked to enjoy that further. His other hand came up to hold Frank by the jaw.

Tears beaded the corners of Frank's eyes. He might fancy some men but his gag reflex definitely didn't, and it was pure relief when Evan pulled away, fingers connected to Frank's tongue by a broken string of saliva. He laid back and stared at the ceiling, trying to force himself to relax. His heart still beat hard from the initial threat, as if it wisely hadn't yet considered the danger passed.

Something thick and meaty poked at him. It was _not_ fingers.

The slick head of Evan's cock pressed into Frank. He choked, hands locking on to Evan's vice grip on his hips. It hurt. Bad burn. Hand on the stovetop. His heel dug hard into the Trapper's shoulder, but it didn't stop the man. Only hips clean against Frank's ass eventually stopped Evan.

Frank gasped for air. Pain and pressure overwhelmed his senses, and with it was a disturbing pleasure that made his eyes roll into the back of his head and his jaw hang slack.

"Fuck..." Frank panted. "Y-you're not fucking supposed to... to do that."

Evan wasn't listening to him. He'd pushed Frank's jacket and hoodie up slightly past his navel and stared at the blooming bruises on Frank's hips. One thumb brushed against the underside of a tattoo on Frank's ribcage, and he pulled the jacket up the rest of the way to look at it. For the first time in possibly forever, Frank felt subconscious about it.

It was a little lamb wrapped warm in the skin of a wolf.

A smile graced Evan's face.

"Lamb," he said. The back of his hand brushed the tattoo, and then raised to run across Frank's bottom lip. "Fitting. Little lamb."

Frank's cheeks burned. "I'm not a lamb. That's not what it means."

Evan held the gaze and started thrusting long and hard and fast, taking the defiance right out of Frank's glare. He fell flat against the countertop, head thrown back and lungs empty despite his countless gasps.

Too much. The pressure was raw inside him, hitting every spot and coiling pleasure and pain so tight in his stomach that Frank thought he'd be sick. All Frank could hear were the loud slaps of skin hitting skin and the thunder of his heart in his throat. It hurt. Hurt bad. But maybe it was good hurt? Frank's body couldn't decide.

"S-low d-down," Frank whispered. It went unheard. Too much. Too much. Hurt bad or hurt good? Fuck. "Slow down. F-fuck, Evan."

Fuck, he was losing his mind. Evan was too big. Frank's brain was still paused back at being entered without preparation, and he couldn't catch up. The pace was brutal. Unyielding.

"Slow," Frank coughed. "Evan, slow down."

Unheard yet again. Frank clawed the man's hands and dug his heel into Evan's shoulder. He could even have kicked him-- Frank wasn't fucking sure anymore. His brain was fried, frazzled, overstimulated and underpleasured, working off of Frank's inherent semblance of masochism alone.

"Please, _fuck_ ," Frank choked. "Please slow down, please. Please."

Evan did more than slow down. He came to a full halt, pressed deep inside Frank, and it was the first time Frank felt a clear spur of pleasure unmuddled by pain. He panted and wiped away unfallen tears. Above him, Evan watched with a slight smile.

Hips slowly rolled the cock out of him, leaving Frank writhing against the countertop. It was fucking whiplash how quick it turned from pain to pleasure. Roll forward, roll back. Slow drag of the cock in the tight of Frank's insides. He moaned. This could make him sob faster than any pain could, and fuck, did it. Evan didn't pause, didn't slow, and didn't speed up. It had a tear spilling down Frank's temple.

"Fuck, that's good. That feels so good."

The back of a finger traced the line of the tear, and Evan hummed. "Feels good, little lamb?"

"I'm not a- fuck, Evan," Frank groaned. "Fuck. You can speed up again."

Evan obliged, and the pleasure amplified with the compliance. Frank laid back and moaned like a whore and let himself be speared, comforted knowing that he still had power in this precarious position.

The speed ramped up, and soon enough Frank was being fucked as he had initially been. This time though, it felt good. Fucking amazing, actually. Evan's cock was perfect. It hit him deep and sat so thick that each thrust crashed against his prostate and sent shivers of pleasure through Frank. God, he didn't even want to come yet.

Evan had other plans. A big warm hand wrapped around Frank's weeping dick and stroked him in rhythm, and Frank only had enough time to give one last long moan before he came. The convulsed tightening did it for Evan. Frank witnessed the glorious knit of the Trapper's brow and the small huffs he let out as he poured himself in Frank's ass. When Evan pulled out, Frank had never felt so empty before. Warm wetness dripped out of him. The sensation made him shudder.

A fist pulled Frank upwards and onto his feet, but Frank's legs couldn't hold him. He fell to his knees with a groan, hand hovering above the bruises knit deep into his hipbones, and glared up at Evan.

"What the fuck was that for?"

Instead of answering, Evan pulled his overalls back up and snapped them into place. His eyes never left Frank, who kneeled before him with his pants still around his thighs and cum running out of him. A hand caressed Frank's jaw, and Evan hummed.

"I don't want Ghostface in my house," he said quietly, and then turned away. With a single gesture to the counter, Evan headed out the door. "You clean up this time."

Sneering at the empty doorway, Frank grabbed a dish towel and cleaned up. Then his head popped up in realization, and he craned his neck towards where Evan had disappeared.

" _This_ time?"


	4. Here To Stay

It didn't take long for everyone, survivor and killer alike, to come to the same conclusion: something was _happening_. Something bad. Something wrong.

Danny got thrown into a trial where the MacMillan Estate warped horribly into Mount Ormond's Lodge, like a fucked up mockery of their connections. Suzie had come back to the campfire with a dislocated shoulder, and the Hillbilly had dirt thrown into his warped face that he was still spitting and sneezing out days later. The Hag had been tripped and fell from the second story of the Red Forest cabin. The Wrath had his bell shattered by thrown rocks.

And it was just as bad for the other side, as it turned out. Survivors came into trial still injured and exhausted. Sometimes hooks sacrificed people immediately. Michael had been able to follow his last kill deep out of bounds, and he'd dragged her back through the gate kicking and screaming. Hell, just that day, Evan had found himself in the exact same trial as Amanda.

No one knew why. They all had thoughts, though. Unvoiced suspicions.

The Huntress was fond of the younger ones. She took it easy on them. Missed axes, ignored obvious locker hiding.

In certain trial areas, Bubba would come back with a handful of pretty plants instead of blood on his chainsaw.

Ghostface and Hag probably had the lowest sacrifices out of them all. They killed more survivors themselves than they gave to the Entity.

And maybe... maybe it was because sometimes they didn't kill at all? How many times had they let survivors go? In appreciation for them being a little less of a pain in the ass than others, or just out of pity? Even the most brutal of them had chucked Dwight into the hatch more times than they could count.

Then you also had survivors helping killers... In innocent, compassionate ways, if extremely naïve. Quentin had stopped to help when Bubba got stuck in one of Evan's bear traps during another horrible dimensional fuck up. When Suzie dislocated her shoulder, Adam cautiously advised her on making a splint-- from a distance.

And Claudette... Claudette had held Frank above water. Saved him, he supposed. Not from death-- Frank knew they couldn't die there in the Entity's realm-- but certainly from an agonizing suspension of the hours Frank knew the Entity would have left him.

Drowning. Drowning for hours, unable to die.

Frank shuddered and tightened his grip on the handle of his hunting knife. He knew well enough from growing up in the shitstain of foster care-- when to fight back, and when to suck up.

It was suck up time.

Two survivors were dead, both sacrificed. A third hung from Frank's shoulder, and Quentin wasn't even struggling.

Frank could tell when the survivors weren't into it. Near constant trials were a drag for the killers too, and the added difficulty of random bullshit occurring was making them even more exhausting. This time it seemed to be the added stress of a new survivor learning the ropes, and Quentin looked to have given up. Probably hoped the poor bastard would find the trap door. Maybe they wouldn't have to suffer the hook in their first trial. More often than not, Frank would cut them some slack. He remembered how irritating it was being the newest killer kidnapped by the Entity. He also remembered how irritating it was dealing with the new killers that came after him.

But he couldn't do that this time. This was suck up time, and goddamnit, Frank was going to give that goddamn creepy sky spider as many sacrifices as he could.

So he dropped Quentin on the hook and he winced through the scream and he went back to hunting. The new survivor was a big fellow. The other survivors had done their best to keep the Legion off him, working hard to baby the man in his first trial. Frank had landed a single cut on him in the beginning and hadn't seen him since. Now there was no one left to distract Frank.

Vibrations fluttered through the air as Quentin's body was pulled into the Entity's embrace. The hatch revealed itself two inches from Frank's right foot, and popped open with a deep rasp.

Frank laughed long and hard, and then kicked the bitch shut. He almost felt bad.

Almost.

He was on his way to a gate when he saw the man sprint between the trees. He really _was_ big. But big meant slow, too.

Frank gave chase, and the man predictably panicked. He raced for a shed and dropped a palet that Frank effortlessly vaulted over. The man hadn't expected that. He fell back, easily outbalanced by the lithe Legion, and held his hands up like it would stop the blade Frank raised over his head.

"Shit luck," Frank chuckled.

The man stared at him. "F-Frank?"

Frank froze. He knew that voice. He knew that voice well. But the man under him was not the man that voice belonged to. It couldn't be.

A bearded face looked up at him. Big pretty doe eyes, wide with shock. Long brown hair Frank had tangled his fingers in many times before.

Frank scrambled away, and the man scrambled up. For every step backward Frank took, the other man took forward, until his back hit the wall and the giant loomed in front of him.

Hands reached tentatively for his mask, and Frank did nothing to stop them. Without it, he could see the man even better, and that was all the more horrifying. Frank was sure he must look hilariously terrified. Instead of laughing, the man just touched him, brushing his fingertips gently across Frank's cheek.

"Jeff," Frank whispered.

"Holy shit," Jeff breathed. "Are you real?"

"What the fuck happened to your face?"

Jeff chuckled. "Yeah, you're real all right. I... i-it was a concert fight. Was blind for a while, but I'm fine now. I... I think."

It was Frank who reached for the other's face this time. He felt across the scar, and Jeff leaned into his touch. It was smooth. Raised, but not warped. Just a few fine lines of distant pain. He ran his hand down the man's temple, over his cheekbone, and fingered through the beard.

"How?" they both mumbled in unison.

How indeed. How was the man that had been a year or two older than him in their teens suddenly a middle-aged viking standing right in front of him? How was he _there_ , in the trial? _Why_?

"Are we dead?"

Frank blinked at him dumbly, and then laughed. He laughed at his piss poor luck, at how much the world seemed to fucking hate him. There was no way this was happening. There was no way Jeff was the newest survivor.

A fist grabbed a hold of Frank's jacket, quieting his pitiful chuckling and pulling him up as Jeff leaned down.

" _You're_ the killer?"

For the first time since coming to the Entity's realm, or perhaps even the first time in Frank's entire fucking life, he felt shame. Hot, humiliating shame. It burned his cheeks and made it eyes water, and Frank wanted to fucking disappear.

Julie and Joey and Suzie were his best friends. They were _fun_. Mildly malicious, clever, with the same teasing humor Frank had. Willing to do anything to gain Frank's approval. They looked to him as a leader. They made him feel like a king.

Jeff was different. A different kind of fun. Quiet and gentle, real philosophical when he got drunk. Kind. So fucking kind. Frank felt like a king when Jeff spent time with him, and absolutely none of it was due to Frank's own ego, or the thrill of power. He'd always said Frank would go far, further than bumblefuck nowhere, Ormond. CEO, entrepreneur. Frank had business charm, if not business patience. They always joked that Frank would come back and buy the town just to bulldoze it over.

Jeff had looked at him and saw something of worth. Not a way out of Ormond, not entertainment, and not the fucking six year old with a broken nose. Being with Jeff was effortless. He demanded nothing of Frank.

And Frank still let him down.

The knife fell from his grip and stuck point-down in the floorboards.

"God, I fucking wish we were dead," Frank whispered. "I..."

"I looked for you." Jeff leaned in closer, and Frank could smell him. Malty and dark. "I looked for you, Frank."

Frank closed the distance between their lips with desperate fervor. Open-mouthed, tongues already linked. It was like they'd fallen right back into place where they'd left off. But had it been a meager few years, or over ten?

Warm palms slid under Frank's jacket and explored across his skin in specific paths. Fingertips dragged relentlessly through every spot that made Frank shudder, and he swore Jeff never forgot him. The very thought curled warmth in Frank's gut. Jeff never forgot him. _Jeff never forgot him._

Frank moaned into Jeff's mouth, and it seemed to tug at something in the man. He lifted Frank by the thighs and laid him over a crate, but for a moment he just straightened and studied him.

Some desperate part of Frank was terrified Jeff was going to leave. Another part really hoped Jeff would. Beyond any neglected sense of actual self-preservation, Frank could tell real fucking quick when a situation was going to fuck him over. Literally and figuratively. And he knew this was a terrible idea. But instead of kicking the man away, Frank stuck his tongue out at him and made a grabby hand for Jeff's belt in classic Frank brattiness. He was still Frank. Despite everything... Frank was still Frank, right?

Jeff smiled at him, and Frank felt the approval warm his insides from groin to grain. Those big hands returned to him, one pulling at the front of his jeans and the other crawling up his stomach to toy with the barbell in Frank's nipple.

"Fuck," Frank groaned.

Lips met the underside of Frank's jaw, and he cursed again, even louder. Jeff traveled from ear to throat, meticulous and patient, leaving a trail of wet. The slick of his tongue and the tickle of his beard was torture, and Frank relished it, arched into it. He kicked his shoes off and squirmed his pants as low as he could get them with Jeff nearly atop him.

The man just chuckled. His hands slid down to Frank's hips and dug into the flesh, massaging. The trail of kisses traveled lower, bypassing the pink bead of Frank's pierced nipple with nothing but a torturous blow of air that had Frank writhing, and continued lower. For one victorious second, Frank thought Jeff was going to suck him off. The visual alone made him moan and leak, but Jeff did little more than shower Frank's navel with kisses and licks, still massaging away.

"Oh my god," Frank whimpered. "Fuck me, please. I'm gonna lose it."

Jeff peered up at him with raised brows. "Did you just say _please_?"

Frank laughed, and it was the most genuine sound he'd heard from himself in a while. He grinned at Jeff, wet his lips, and repeated himself with just barely a whisper.

" _Please_."

Jeff groaned. He dragged his lips up Frank's chest, and after a small pause, latched down on the pierced nipple. Frank's hips bucked of their own accord, and he threw his head back with a curse. Teeth pinched him gently, just the opposite of what Frank needed, and his brain hiccupped with the overstimulation. He jerked back, hoping to catch and tug, hoping for pain to drag him down from the high, to no avail. Only after Frank was breathless and miserable did Jeff release him, dropping the red nub from his mouth.

"I am going to fucking cum, Jeff," Frank panted, as threateningly as he could.

The man above only smiled and leaned down to press their lips together. Their tongues met flush, and Jeff took full control when he got the piercing in his mouth.

Frank wondered if Jeff even realized he had a piercing fetish. He smiled to himself, satisfied with the secret. Maybe he'd get his dick pierced. Maybe then Jeff would-

Two thick fingers pressed inside of Frank, and he gasped against Jeff's lips. The man murmured an apology, and Frank shook his head quick.

"Fuck that," he growled. "More."

Jeff gave him more. He pressed as far in as he could go, rubbing and thrusting. His fingers bent into Frank's prostate like he'd known exactly where it was, and Frank choked. He couldn't fucking breathe with the weight of Jeff's attention on him. He couldn't fucking believe he hadn't come yet either.

Frank quickly realized that he wouldn't get to actually have sex at this rate.

"Stop," Frank panted. "S-stop."

He hadn't even needed to say it twice. Jeff's motions immediately halted, and he rose from sucking light hickeys on Frank's neck to look at him.

"Are you okay?"

Frank was not okay. He felt lightheaded and dizzy as he rubbed tears of overstimulation from his eyes, but he grabbed Jeff by the collar of his shirt and glared at him all the same.

"If you don't stick your fucking dick in me, I'm going to scream."

Jeff laughed deep in his chest, and his smile creased the corners of his eyes. "What happened to please?"

Frank bit the man's lower lip and dragged his teeth across it, and kissed the red mark left behind. Panting, he lay back and hooked his leg around Jeff's middle to pull their hips flush. God, he could feel him. The "please" sat on the tip of Frank's tongue, but Jeff didn't need it. He'd undone his belt, shoved unwanted clothing out of way, and was already pressing the head of his thick cock into position. Frank rut himself against the man in wanton need. He could feel it slick across the cleft of his ass. So close.

Jeff snapped his hips forward, sheathing himself entirely inside Frank.

A long curse escaped Frank's lips in a hiss. Jeff didn't move. He studied Frank like he thought he'd hurt him, and Frank proved him wrong when he began to squirm, trying to bounce himself on Jeff's dick.

Jeff took the hint and pulled out slow, holding Frank's hips down with both hands, before sliding back in easily. Frank moaned and clawed at Jeff's wrists. It felt so fucking good. He begged for more, for harder and faster. Jeff ignored him, and instead chose to pull out until only the head of his cock sat on the edge of Frank's hole and then press back inside. Slow and patient, and Frank felt like he was going to lose his fucking mind. He wiggled violently, but got nowhere with Jeff's great hands holding him still.

If it were Danny, he'd hit Frank. Slap him right across the mouth and tell him to shut up, and Frank would like it. Joey would concede like he always did. He'd do as Frank told him. He'd give Frank what he wanted. And Evan... well, Frank would never have to tell Evan to fuck him harder.

Jeff was none of those things. He fucked Frank like he knew better than Frank did as to what he needed, and fuck, Frank was in no position to argue. He moaned and trembled and shook, leaking precum from his untouched cock and still feeling like he could cum any second. Tears spilled from the corners of his eyes. All from the overstimulation, but goddamn, Frank really thought he could bawl. Especially when Jeff leaned down and flicked his tongue across Frank's nipple.

"God," Frank sobbed, and he cursed even louder when Jeff took the piercing back in his mouth.

Finally, Jeff started hitting him with more vigor. The thrusts sped up, spearing into Frank harder. Not as hard as Danny. Not even close to Evan. This was still Jeff's will, and Jeff knew best. The head of his cock punched Frank right in the prostate, and Frank tightened with a full body shudder.

"Fuck, Frank," Jeff breathed, sending a wave of hot air across Frank's neck.

"God, yes," Frank groaned. "Right there. Fuck, please."

Suddenly each thrust hit him dead on. The drag of Jeff's thick cock rubbed against his prostate teasingly, building and building until one last touch threw Frank far over the edge. Stars shattered his sight, and Frank arched right off the crate as he came.

Jeff didn't stop. He wrapped his arms around Frank's abdomen and pulled him down for each thrust up. It was too much. No matter how much Frank tightened up, Jeff's dick still managed to assault the same spot deep inside him, over and over again. Hot kisses peppered Frank's chest, chased by moans.

 _Too much_ quickly became _not enough_ again.

Frank's fingers tangled in Jeff's hair and pulled, forcing the man's head up to mash their mouths together. He stuck his tongue in the man's mouth, clinking his barbell against teeth, and Jeff moaned. He took Frank's blood-gorged cock in his hand, and it was all Frank needed to cum again. This time, Jeff came with.

While Frank lay limp and dizzy against the crate, Jeff found a rag that didn't smell of diesel and cleaned them both up. His touch was soft and gentle.

Meanwhile, post-nut clarity was throwing Frank into ice.

Legs shaking and hands trembling, Frank started assembling his clothes. Jeff helped, seemingly oblivious to the haunted look on the teen's face. He even picked the knife up off the floor and handed it to Frank with a gentle grin.

"So, we're not dead. How do we escape?"

Frank snatched the knife away and pointed it at the man, who took a careful step back.

"There is no fucking escape," Frank said. His voice wavered. "For any of us."

"But there has to-"

"Go open the gate," Frank snapped. "Get out. Next time... next time I can't let you go. You get that?"

Jeff's brows knit. He took the threat as the desperate pleading it was, and reached out for Frank.

Frank turned and left.

Each step away from the man felt more and more numb, as though his mind were fleeing to an entirely different plane than his body. Frank couldn't hear. Couldn't see. Just stared forward and walked, letting the world warp around him until snow crunched under his shoes and the lodge loomed above. This time, there were no thoughts of escaping elsewhere. No one else would understand.

Suzie saw him first, and she knew immediately. Maybe it was the empty look on his face, or the exceptional paleness of his skin. Maybe he was shaking. Fuck, maybe he was crying. Frank didn't think he was crying, but then again, he couldn't feel anything.

He _did_ feel Suzie's arms wrap around his waist, and he felt her head press into his chest. It seemed to pull him back some-- back to his numb body and the nauseating horror that churned within it. He tried to hug her back, but his arms hung loose and cold around her shoulders.

"Frank?" Julie called. She took the rest of the stairs two steps at a time to get down to them. "What happened?"

"Frank's back?" came Joey's voice from upstairs. "Is something wrong?"

Julie was studying Frank. All concerned like, with her lips quirked up on one side in a sympathetic grimace. Without another word, she joined the hug.

For a moment, Frank closed his eyes and just rest against the girls. They warmed him, thawing at the cold ice in his chest with some vague semblance of reprieve. Then he opened his eyes and walked forward, pulling from their embrace.

He sat on the couch, laid back, and stared at the wall where the mural lay.

"Jeff is the newest survivor," he said.

Joey leaned over the railing above and looked between them all with wide eyes. " _Our_ Jeff?"

"No, fuckface. Some random Jeff."

"No!" Suzie wailed. "No! That's not fair!"

Julie sat beside Frank on the couch. Her hand cupped over his knee in a comforting touch. She knew. She'd always known. Frank leaned into her, hiding his face in Julie's shoulder.

"He's fucking... old," he mumbled. "Mid-thirties or something."

"Old? What the fuck does that mean?" Joey crowed.

"What do you mean, Frank?" Julie whispered.

"The world just... moved on without us," Frank answered slowly. "I don't even know why it's fucking me up so much. I mean-- we have an ancient egyptian priest here, of course time is meaningless. But..."

"But...?"

Frank didn't answer for a while. He stared at the mural while Joey came down to comfort Suzie, and they both ended up nestled against Frank's back on the couch. Despite the warm contact, Frank could feel that pit of cold still lingering stonelike and heavy in his chest, as if to certify that it was there to stay.

"We're never going to be able to leave here."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jeff with three red-faced survivors walking alongside him through the postgame field: W-when you say "spectate",,,,,?,?
> 
> Them: yeah dude


	5. Quitters Never Prosper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Making good on that Emotional Trauma tag *dabs*

The call for the trial was like an itch you couldn't scratch. It curled in the back of your neck, deep as bone and unreachable. Such an insufferable thing couldn't be escaped. You _would_ answer the call.

Frank had never been particularly obedient. Cut out the trauma of his youth and he'd still been a little bastard even at the best of times. Destructive. Spiteful. Charming and funny when it got him what he wanted. Brutal and vicious when he knew there was nothing more to lose. So he was ready for the itch. He'd suffer through it. He'd claw the skin off his spine if it meant a trial would be abated for just a bit longer.

As it was, the Entity hadn't called upon him. For how long, he wasn't sure. He couldn't tell anymore what time even was. He'd stay awake for what he thought to be days, and finally collapse and sleep for what felt like a week. But what were days and weeks in the Entity's realm? What was time to an immortal vector?

And then he'd think about Jeff. Greying, scarred up Jeff, still smiling so gently.

No. Frank would shake the thought out of his head. He'd pound it out of his temples, smother it in pain.

That _wasn't_ Jeff.

It was all Frank had been able to think for the past... however long it had been. Time changed people. This Jeff wasn't the Jeff the Legion had so attached themselves to. He wasn't the Jeff at the video store. He wasn't the Jeff that drew their mural. It wasn't _his_ Jeff.

And Frank wasn't the Frank Jeff had known. Frank wasn't yet a murderer when they'd last seen one another.

So it wasn't Jeff. And... and Frank wasn't Frank anymore either.

He didn't want to think about that. So he focused himself on those three little words and repeated them and repeated them and repeated them.

It wasn't Jeff.

Over the days, or the weeks, a horrible sense of restlessness had filled him. His hands itched for the chase. The hunt. As if the Entity were stoking dark embers in him, breathing the coals just red enough to make him desperate for the very thing he was trying so hard to hide from.

To pass the time, to relieve his mind, Frank sought out anyone who would relieve the itch. Danny was a goddamn blessing of a deviant, and Frank lost himself in the man's hands for days. He tied Frank up and cut lines and patterns into his chest and thighs and fucked him until he screamed, and he'd slap Frank awake if he started dissociating. It was just what he needed. It kept him from his own head.

But even Danny knew when enough was enough. He'd held Frank down with a white-knuckled grip until Frank stopped fighting, stopped trying to antagonize, and he'd hissed a threat in Frank's ear.

" _I am not a punishment, Frank Morrison._ "

But, Frank never had been particularly obedient. In the end, Danny removed himself from the equation and simply disappeared. Frank wasn't even sure when he'd seen the Ghostface last.

Joey was his next desperate go-to. He bent over backwards for Frank. He'd do anything Frank asked. But he couldn't fake hatred. He didn't hit Frank for being disobedient or mouthy, and even the flat palm smacking Frank's ass red when they fucked was nothing but affection. Antagonizing, arguing, fighting; it hit them hard for an hour or two, but boiled through so fast that by the time Joey was inside Frank and the first moan slipped between their lips, they goddamn loved each other again. It was good. It made Frank feel good, even if only for a moment. But it wasn't what Frank needed.

It made the restlessness worse.

When it began to peak-- a horrible tremble in Frank's limbs, an incessant tapping of his foot, an overwhelming physical inability to sit still-- he went looking for Danny. It was nothing more than aimless wandering. Pointless, at best. You can't find a transient who's tied down to nothing. And as if it had been waiting for that moment, for that desperate fervor with which Frank sought out his own doom, the Entity trailed its itchy finger across the back of Frank's neck.

And Frank answered the call.

Arriving at the MacMillan Estate gave the same sense as being thrown into ice water. Every hair on Frank's body, peach fuzz and otherwise, stood straight up as a dark shudder made its way through him. He stepped forward mechanically, one foot in front of the other. His feet were numb in his shoes.

From between the trees, nearly on the opposite side of the forest, Jeff caught his gaze.  
  
For several solid minutes, they could only stare at one another. Frank could see the lines on Jeff's face, the age, reflected so clearly through the way he stood and the way he seemed to lean towards Frank. Longingly, in the same way Frank himself did to him.

One absentminded step forward was all it took to shatter the visage. Frank paused on that single step, hand tightening white-knuckled on his knife, and Jeff disappeared among the oaks.

Not-Jeff, Frank reminded himself nervously. It wasn't his Jeff.

He took another slow step. Just one trial. He just had to get through this once, and it would be okay. All he needed was the first push. The momentum would carry him. The next step pressed him into action. Frank readjusted the knife in his hand and broke into a sprint, racing in the direction he'd seen Not-Jeff go. 

Momentum. That's all he needed. 

It was Ace he found first. The man yelled in surprise and dropped a pallet too early, and Frank leaped over it for a quick stab at an exposed back. Every survivor scattered in a different direction.

Blood pounded in Frank's ears. A heartbeat, drawing him unnaturally toward each survivor. But Frank only sought out Jeff. _Not_ -Jeff. And Not-Jeff was blissfully slow to flee. A quick lunge and the man cried out in pain, and Frank felt it echo within himself. Agony, visceral and not so. It froze Frank up, turned his limbs to ice and his joints rigid.

Everything he'd been telling himself to make this okay fell right out of his skull.

He'd just cut Jeff. _Jeff._ Slashed him across the thigh, deep enough that he'd probably end up bleeding out within minutes if he didn't put pressure on it fast.

Frank leaned against one of the mazelike stone walls throughout the trial. He couldn't breathe. The knife felt heavy in his hand, dripping with Jeff's blood.

 _Finish the job_ , whispered a dark voice inside him.

Breathe in. In through your nose, out through your mouth. The same process they'd all memorized to help Suzie with her panic attacks. Breathe, Frank. Just breathe.

 _Finish the job_.

Frank pushed away from the wall. It's not Jeff, he recited. He repeated it in his head like a mantra, over and over as he followed the blood. It's not Jeff.

The next few minutes were a numb, messy blur. Several survivors came into view, mostly ignored. Ace was dragged out from searching a chest and thrown on a hook. Frank caught Jeff trying to cleanse a totem, and he remembered wondering if Nancy had taught him how to heal himself using them. 

Not-Jeff didn't get the chance to fulfill the attempt. Frank dragged him to the nearest hook he could find, eager to get it all over with, and threw the man's great form onto the rusted metal.

Jeff's scream hit Frank like a goddamn train. What made it worse was the obvious bite that quieted it, leaving Jeff panting on the hook, trying not to make noise, and Frank staring at him in horror.

"It's okay," Jeff whispered, haggard. "It's okay."

"S-shut up... Shut the fuck up!" Frank screamed, stumbling back from the hooked man. "Just fucking die!"

Frank turned and sprinted to the first thing that caught his attention. It ended up being David Fucking King, the nuisance, having been slamming a locker door open and closed to draw Frank away from the hooks. The brit looked hard at Frank, cocked his head to the side, and turned tail.

The chase was half-hearted. Frank was almost grateful for it, to be drawn away from the bodies hanging at the storehouse. At the same time, Frank felt the strange urge to see it through. To stand a few feet from Jeff and force himself to watch until the man was dead. 

The very thought made him sick to his stomach, and the sick made him hot with shame and anger.

A third messy lunge had Frank panting, stamina drained, and growling with frustration. Darkness pulled at the edge of his vision until the exhaustion faded. By that time, David was long gone. Frank circled back for new prey and found exactly what he'd fled from.

Jeff stood before him, hunched over in defeat to half his size. Blood stained his clothes from shoulder to thigh, hook wound to knife wound, and he panted hard. Those big tired brown eyes watched Frank, and he swore Jeff could see through his mask, see straight through and all the way down to the terror gnawing deep in Frank's bones.

"It's okay," he said. He offered a smile. "Do what you have to do, Frank."

Frank felt like he was on autopilot as he stepped forward and stuck his knife between the man's ribs. Tears fell down his cheeks just as fast as Jeff fell to the ground. And then, as if his anchor had suddenly run out of slack, Frank couldn't move at all. He watched through blurry vision as blood dripped from Jeff's lips with each cough.

"It's okay," Jeff gasped. "Frank. It's... it's okay."

Frank's free hand grabbed his knife by the blade as tight as he possibly could. Sharp pain split across his palm. Hot blood welled up, and in it, anger blossomed.

Suddenly there was no anchor.

Another step and Frank's knife went into Jeff's back. Then his arm. Quick stabs. In and out. Each withdrew a breath of agony from the man. A grunt, a groan.

"Fuck you!" Frank screamed. "This is your fucking fault!" Another stab. Blood sprayed him when he pulled the blade back, and he shoved it in again. "For making me think that I could be anything other than what I fucking am!"

Stab, stab, stab. Frank couldn't see anything but red. Heard nothing but the blood roaring in his ears. One stab stuck, and Frank's grip slipped.

Jeff had long since stopped moving. Long since stopped making noise. Frank stumbled back from the corpse and fell flat on his ass. His eyes stung. His hands trembled. Blood covered the both of them, both of theirs, all mixed together and un-fucking-differentiable. Where did Jeff's blood stop and Frank's begin?

"Jeff," Frank whispered.

He crawled over to the man and placed one shaking hand on Jeff's soaked red shirt. How many times had he been held against that chest? Held that chest himself? Comforted, cried? Now Frank's knife sat in it, so deep you couldn't see the blade.

"No... no, fuck," Frank whispered. He pulled the knife out gently and threw it to the side. "Jeff..."

There wasn't even blood coming out anymore.

Frank sobbed. He clutched Jeff's body and cried until no more tears would come, and then he cried harder. It wasn't until his voice was already raw that Frank started screaming. He shot to his feet, tearing off his mask and throwing it out into the trees.

"Fuck you!" he screamed at the sky. "Did you get what you fucking wanted? Are you fucking happy now?"

After a quick turnaround to find the knife, it followed suit.

"Are you fucking sated? Have you taken enough from us?" he screamed, and his voice cracked. "Fuck you! You can't take anything else from me... Please, fuck. I can't fucking..."

Frank dropped to the ground beside Jeff's body in defeat. Something inside of him seemed to shatter, and an entire new reserve of tears crept down Frank's blank face. He stared at the ground, head hung between his knees.

"I quit," he mumbled. "I'm done."

And so he sat there. Sat beside a corpse with his head in his arms and stared at the ground, feeling entirely empty.

It could have been twenty minutes or it could have been ten, but eventually, long after the trial should surely have ended, Frank felt a familiar shiver raise the hair on his neck. Like a tickle. A pull. Urging his attention in a specific direction as if it sensed the aura of another. Generally, prey.

Sometimes, a predator.

Frank looked towards the feeling.

Claudette stood a few feet away from him with David at her side. In her hands, his mask. In David's, his knife. David looked rather smug to be in possession of it. Claudette just looked sad.

Frank watched them for a few moments before lowering his head once more. They could stab him for all he fucking cared. Make him bleed out next to Jeff. He almost hoped they would.

Something touched his hand. Frank's head jerked up.

Claudette was crouched in front of him. She held his mask out, brushing the back of his hand with the edge.

"I-I don't believe in... in evil people," she said slowly. "I think that there are evil things in the world, a-and things that can push us to do evil, but..."

She reached for his bloody hand. Frank let her take it, let her open his hand up and place the mask in it.

"We're going to get out of here," Claudette whispered. "We don't know how yet, o-or when. But we will. And we're going to take as many with us as we can."

David came to him then. A protective tower standing strong alongside Claudette's smaller frame. Frank's knife looked awkward in his hand, like David wasn't even sure how to hold it. After a moment of just watching Frank, he dropped the knife beside him. Easily within Frank's reach.

Then he held his hand out.

A strange feeling filled Frank. Like a weight, heavy and sluggish in his limbs. Stones in his gut, threatening nausea. Despite it all, Frank reached up and took the hand. David pulled him effortlessly to his feet. Then he turned, and he and Claudette walked away.

Frank didn't know what to do. He stood where he was, feeling that weight in his legs. As if he had roots dug so deep in the ground nothing could get him out. Nothing could move him. Nothing could free him.

Suddenly Frank took a step. He hadn't even realized he had. And then he took another. And he followed the survivors. His hand hurt. His eyes burned. Tears had run streaks down his dirty face and it itched at him, but he didn't rub them away. He followed. They led him to the gate, already open and awaiting their escape. David walked through, but Claudette lingered. She turned back to Frank, brows knit.

"We're not going to leave you," she promised. She stepped out of bounds.

Frank stepped forward as well. Thorns sprang up, blocking his path. Even without Claudette moving, even with her standing there watching him, she faded further and further away. Everything faded away.

Soon Frank was standing alone in the Entity's forest. He looked down at the mask in his hands. Smeared with blood from Jeff and Frank alike, it stared back.


End file.
